"lust for life"story by sydney leighartwork by jeff swenson

The words on the page didn’t change. He willed them to move with desperate intensity, begged the letters to reassemble themselves like he used to in school to outplay dyslexia. Yet there they stayed, unmoving, typed with finite delicacy beneath the boilerplate salutation of the hospital’s oncology department. How could this be happening?

There was no way he could tell Wendy. Not now; not in her condition. With four months to go, he could push back the surgery until after her delivery. What more could he do? It had already spread from one to the other. He would simply wait. After the birth of their first--and apparently last--child, he would tell his wife that he was losing both of his testicles to cancer.

***

Charles stared hard at the doctor.

“I don’t get it. I mean, this is a mistake, right? Christ, it has to be!” The doctor’s sigh implied otherwise. “But everything’s been fine so far. Better than fine! We read all the books, went to all the classes, did everything we were supposed to. Right, Wendy?” His wife managed a listless nod.

“No.” Charles rose and folded his arms as though his defiance would be enough to reject the reality. “No, this is a mistake. Now you’re telling me she has this—this thing, this—what did you call it?”

“Eclampsia. This type of complication is not uncommon during first pregnancies in women your wife’s age, Mr. Isaacs. And with—”

“Eclampsia? What the hell does that even mean?” He looked at his wife’s new shroud-face, the pall cast by months of hope suddenly rescinded, aborted by mere words, foreign words presented to them in place of baskets stuffed with hooded towels and teddy bears—a birth announcement heralding the delivery of nothing but despair to tuck under zoo animal blankets and a moon-face mobile in a nursery filled only with the unwelcome sounds of repose. Did Benjamin Moore have a color wheel for that?

Charles turned to the doctor. “I just don’t understand. I really don’t. I mean, how the hell can Wendy die from something we didn’t even know she had? You did actually say ‘die’, didn’t you, Dr. McCauley?” His voice rose, bordered on frantic. “You did say my wife might die? As in dead? DEAD?!”

“Mr. Isaacs, try to calm down. I’m sure this must be extremely difficult. But as I tried to explain to you, your wife’s condition went unnoticed because many of the symptoms of this disease are so common in pregnancy.” The doctor sat beside the examination bed and threw his hands in the air. “You did nothing wrong. Swelling, nausea, headaches, indigestion, weight gain—one would naturally assume those were typical side effects during a first pregnancy. Pre-eclampsia often goes unreported for that very reason—and therefore, often undetected as well. With no history on her biological parents, we’re left guessing about genetic predispositions. We simply couldn’t predict whether her normally high blood pressure would increase as expected … or as swiftly and dangerously as it did.” Charles paced the small room, shaking his head and muttering inaudibly, angrily.

“I just don’t believe it. I just don’t. This is ridiculous! I mean, one day she’s fine, and the next, you’re telling us she might die? This is insane!”

“You’ll excuse my candor, Mr. Isaacs. Looking back won’t yield answers in this case. Not the kind that can help us today, at least.” The doctor placed his hands on his knees and fixed his gaze on Charles. “The real problem here is that you don’t seem to understand that we need to induce labor and deliver your child immediately, or your wife will suffer from a variety of damaging—and yes, potentially deadly—convulsions. We don’t have much time.” Wendy buried her face in her hands and wept softly, bare feet dangling from the edge of the bed. Were they that swollen before? Why hadn’t she told him?

“I know. And as your wife’s physician, I must inform you both that the survival rate of a baby that age is only around one percent.” He shifted his gaze to Wendy and back to Charles again. “Look. I realize how this is difficult to hear. But it’s highly unlikely the baby will be leaving the hospital with you and your wife. As you yourself could tell from listening to the fetal heart tone, it was almost non-existent. To be completely honest, Mr. Isaacs, I’m afraid your baby may expire before delivery.”

“No.” Charles dropped to his knees and pressed his face against Wendy’s belly. “Please, no.” The doctor placed his hand on Charles’s shoulder.

“Once we’ve stabilized your wife, we can discuss the treatment options—even prevention methods you can pursue to avoid this happening during her next pregnancy. You can try again, Mr. Isaacs. In fact, there are methods of preventing this condition in a future pregnancy—though as I mentioned to Wendy earlier, they are rather unorthodox.”

“He’s right, honey,” Wendy said. “I don’t want this any more than you do. But if it’s not meant to be, there’s nothing we can do but try again. The baby can suffer long-term damage even if we do decide to wait--and that wouldn’t be fair,” she cried. “They can run some tests to see if there are underlying causes for this, treat them, and then we can do other things to help before we try again. Ok? Ok, Charles?”

“You don’t understand,” Charles whispered. “I can’t. I just can’t.”

“Yes you can,” Wendy urged. “And you will. We will. Together. You told me a long time ago that you wanted a child more than anything. That you would do whatever it took to have one.” She wept freely now, imploring Charles to relent with a tender, desperate gaze. “And we will have one. Just not right now, Charles. It’s not in the cards. I realize that now, and I hope you do, too.” The doctor stepped closer.

“Listen, Mr. Isaacs. We really need to get your wife stabilized. The longer we wait, the more risks there are for her health. Her organs are all in danger of failing, and we need to get her blood pressure under control immediately.” He covered Wendy’s hand with his own. “But I’m asking your permission to go ahead and prepare her for surgery. I know it’s not easy, but this is something we all need to agree is best… and move forward from there.” Charles stood and faced Dr. McCauley, a gray, bespectacled man of slight frame.

“Let me just make sure I’m getting you, doc. You’re asking my permission to remove our child from my wife’s body and let it die? Just like that? If it hasn’t already ‘expired’, we’ll just… take it out and watch it die? That’s what we’re all agreeing on here?”

“Charles, please!” Wendy begged.

“No, Wendy. I’m sorry, but we are not going to let this happen! We need a second opinion—and that’s what we’ll get.” He grabbed her shoes and worked her feet into them.

“Mr. Isaacs, I’m afraid there is no time for a second opinion,” the doctor insisted, stepping closer and gesturing for Charles to stop. “This is of a most urgent matter, I assure you.”

“Charles, what are you doing? Where will we go?” She clutched at her abdomen and rocked back on her heels. “I don’t feel well, Charles.”

“Anywhere but here, Wendy. That’s where we’ll go. This is nuts! My god, just think about it!” He pushed past the doctor, who attempted one last time to dissuade them from leaving.

“Mr. Isaacs, I must ask you to—”

“Fuck off!” Charles screamed, and flipped a stainless steel tray of medical instruments on his way out the door. “Stay the hell away from us,” he warned. He grabbed a fetal stethoscope and shook it at the doctor. “We’ll see how ‘non-existent’ my child’s heartbeat is once we get away from here, you sick fuck.”

***

The trees became a constant blur of shadows as they drove through the night. “Charles, where are we going?” Wendy pressed her fingers against her temples and closed her eyes. “I’m not sure this is a good idea.” “Trust me, Wendy. Okay? I’m going to take care of this. We’ll go to the lake house and I’ll make some calls from there. I don’t want them trying to find us at home.” Moments later, he heard Wendy’s shallow breath of sleep and reached for his unborn child in the darkness. “I won’t let anything happen to you,” he promised quietly, and turned onto the birch-lined dirt road.

***﻿

The first seizure was the worst. It came after Charles checked for signs of life under his wife’s thick, stretched skin and found nothing. He positioned the trumpeted end of the fetoscope over each and every inch of Wendy’s stomach for hours on end until she insisted he stop. “The baby is dead, Charles. Dead! And I’ll probably be next!” She stumbled past him into the bathroom, where he heard her wretch and vomit. The next thing Charles knew, the irises of her eyes disappeared somewhere into the depths of her skull while her whole body jerked and twitched in a sickly dance. He made a makeshift bed on the floor and tended to her through the night. Mostly, though, he spoke to his son begged for him to come back; invoked the powers that be to deliver his one and only child into his life—and into his arms. In the morning, Wendy’s color had turned sallow. He moved her to the bedroom.

***

“I don’t feel well, Charles.” Wendy grabbed at the sleeve of Charles’ shirt and rolled her head back and forth, the pillow marked by a sweat-shadow beneath her. “I know, sweetheart, I know. But the baby is getting stronger, Wendy. Isn’t that amazing? Our baby, Wendy--our son. He’s actually going to be okay!” Charles leaned in closer and smiled, whispered. “And do you want to know something else? I think I can hear his heartbeat.” Wendy shook her head and spoke between short, shallow breaths. “But … the baby is dead, Charles. The doctor told us … a baby so young wouldn’t make it. It’s not right, Charles … the baby … he can’t survive … our baby’s dead, Charles. Our baby’s--” Another convulsion seized Wendy’s body, a rag doll jerked and plucked by invisible savage strings. She languished for the remainder of the day, rising later only to vomit bile into a small pan Charles kept by her side.

***

Wendy’s voice came creased with weakness. “Charles, please bring me to the hospital. I--I think I’m dying.” Her cheeks fell into the downward slope of bone, and thin clumps of hair rested on the bed sheets beneath her. “But Wendy, look how big he’s getting. Here--put your hands here and feel your son.” She pulled back in alarm as he rested her palms on the mound which had begun to eclipse her midsection. “It’s kicking,” she murmured. “Moving. Twisting. It--it hurts.” She trailed off, once more seized by a convulsion. Her teeth bit down hard on her tongue and bubbles of white foam surged from the corners of her mouth.

***

She looked less like his wife each day, and more like a spent receptacle for the rapidly growing child inside her. Skin strained tautly against muscle and bone, and she ceased to take in food, liquids, or excrete any waste. But still, the baby grew.

***

“Can you see at all?” Charles peered into the cloudy film covering his wife’s amaurotic eyes. She moved her dry, colorless lips and barely formed the word. “Help.” He leaned in proudly and held his ear to the thriving swell which moved and shifted beneath him. And now, more than ever, it was evident that the steady rhythm he heard was not quite a beat, per se--but more like a crushing or grinding sound. Like chewing. Wendy lasted just long enough for their son to finish her spleen before moving on to the apex of her heart, which pulsated every now and again until the last valve was devoured. Charles waited patiently while the baby ate his way out of his mother’s chest. Charles held his child and smiled. The first few days would be manageable, but he’d have to get creative once Wendy gave this hungry boy his last feeding.